


Inngiqtuq

by onstraysod



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Cultural Differences, F/M, Fluff, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 17:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17084414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onstraysod/pseuds/onstraysod
Summary: While discussing Inuktitut words with the Lady, Harry Goodsir receives a particular request.Written for Day 5 (A Private Performance) of the12 Days of Carnivale





	Inngiqtuq

It just so happened that they were going over verbs that evening, activities common to both their cultures. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of the slops storage across from her, notebook open in his lap, Goodsir jotted down the Inuktitut word for “hunt” and pushed a spiral of loose curls away from his brow. The lady watched him with her luminous dark eyes, a length of scrap rope limp in her hands. She had employed herself in her idle hours, it seemed, in untwisting the individual strands of hemp and braiding them into multiple slender strips, much like the cords of sinew and leather that attached the sleeves of her coat.

“Now, what about row?” Goodsir asked, looking up at her. He mimed holding an oar with both hands, dipping it first into the waters on the left side of his imaginary canoe, then into the waters on the right. “Row. When in your— your— _umiaq_?” He paused uncertainly, not sure if he were remembering the word for “boat” correctly.

“Umiaq,” the lady stated with a firm nod. She was mirroring Goodsir’s actions now, moving her own invisible oar through the placid Polar waters. “Ro- rohr-”

“Row. _Ro-oh_.”

“Ro-oh.”

“Yes, good.” He pointed at her. She continued rowing and offered him a small smile. The Inuktitut word for the act rolled off her tongue so fast that Goodsir struggled to move his pencil fast enough upon the notebook page, spelling it out phonetically. He felt an answering smile drawing his mouth taut.

They were infectious, her smiles, and he was favored with them more frequently now. He supposed it was an outward manifestation of the trust and comfort she felt in his presence, and it pleased him, though nothing he had done had been designed to build either feeling. He had merely treated her with the simple kindness and dignity with which he approached all people. The fact that she was a woman and an Inuit mattered not at all to Harry Goodsir. Or, rather, both made her an object of even greater admiration and interest to him. He was the master of concepts that seemed utterly alien to many men, such as the multitude of life that swarmed invisible in a single drop of seawater; but Harry could not comprehend the fear and - in some cases - revulsion which many of the sailors evinced towards the lady. Some of these same men would run across a busy London thoroughfare to fetch the handkerchief dropped by a maiden in petticoats, as if such an act rendered them as gallant as the knights that sparred with dragons in old stories; yet they sneered and shrank from this woman, a woman who thrived in a land that, without their ships, could kill them in a matter of days, if not hours. It was a fact as incomprehensible to him as doggerel and reef knots.

Repeating the Inuktitut for “row” once more and offering her a bigger smile, he went to the next word on his list. “What about fish, to fish, to catch fish?” He paused, trying to decide how best to convey this concept - mimicking casting a rod and reeling in a line clearly wouldn’t do - when he noticed that the lady’s gaze had left his face, becoming distant as her attention was captured by some faraway sound. For a moment Harry couldn’t pinpoint what she had noticed, his own ears too used by now to the constant shipboard cacophony. But a momentary lull in the pounding of footsteps and the shriek of the ice allowed him to hear the crystalline clarity of a single tenor voice raised in unaccompanied song.

_I am a brisk lad and my fortune is bad,_  
_And if e’er I get rich it’s a wonder,_  
_I’ve spent all my money on girls and strong beer,_  
_What riches I had are all plundered._

“Inngiqtug.”

The lady spoke the word with such decisive suddenness that Goodsir jumped. She turned her eyes to him and nodded, as if indicating the area outside the slops storage. There, down the open aft hatch, the sound of the singing floated along from the forward area of the deck above where the men gathered before supper.

“ _Inn-yut-tok_?” Goodsir repeated, pointing upward as if indicating a hovering string of musical notes.

“ _Inn-yuck-tuk_ ,” she corrected. “Inngiqtug.”

“Singing? Song? To sing?”

The lady nodded again - “Inngiqtug” - and her visage was lit with pleasure. The fact that she didn’t understand the words took nothing away from her enjoyment of the simple lilting melody crafted by the sailor’s voice, singing of debts and dishonor.

_To the top and top-gallant I hoisted my sails,_  
_With a flimsy cravat and a wig with three tails,_  
_Oh, now I am ready to gnaw my own nails,_  
_Drink the cold water of Limbo._

The song faded away behind a fresh rush of footsteps and the concurrent groan of the ship’s timbers, but the lady continued to smile. Goodsir could not help but echo the expression.

“Inngiqtug,” he said, and her eyes met his again.

Softly at first, but without the least timidity, she began to sing. Goodsir could not pick out any words he recognized, for they all blended seamlessly together, as if it were a melody formed not of individual phrases but of emotions rendered into sounds, rising and falling, curving and leaping. It seemed to paint pictures in his mind: of jumping salmon, of running caribou, of sunlight scattered like living sparks across the surface of day-old snow. He almost fancied he could smell the cold clearness of the air outside, or feel the bands of the aurora undulating against his skin.

The lady fell silent, watching Goodsir, the corners of her lips still gently curved upward, a warmth in her cheeks. “Inngiqtug.”

It took a moment for Goodsir to gather himself enough to speak. “Beautiful,” he gushed, then quickly flipped the pages in his notebook to find a suitable word in Inuktitut. “Alianait.” The color in her cheeks deepened.

“Sing,” Goodsir said, nodding. “Inngiqtug. Sing.”

“ _Ssng. See-ng_.”

“Yes. Sing.”

“Sing.” And she pointed at Goodsir.

His brain lagged in comprehending her meaning. Then he laughed. “Me? Oh no. Aagga.” He shook his head, trying not to notice how the smile fell from her lips. “I cannot sing. I would not wish to inflict such torture on you.” He gave her a bright smile but it was not reciprocated.

“Inngiqtug. Sing,” she repeated, though more quietly, and pointed at him again.

“No.” He held up both hands, shaking his head again. “I— how can I make you understand? Bad — aagga piujuq.” He tapped his chest. “Aagga piujuq inngiqtug.”

The lady’s brow furrowed and she gave one shake of her head. It was clear she didn’t understand him. Goodsir sighed and closed his notebook.

“It’s time to fetch your supper,” he told her, first in English, then as best as he could manage in Inuktitut. He climbed to his feet and edged out of the storage space, sliding the wooden door shut behind him. Honey, the ship’s carpenter, was on sentry duty outside, but he was slumped low in his chair, his chin upon his chest. Goodsir didn’t wake him.

As he waited in the galley for Wall to dish up the lady’s meal, Goodsir began to feel shame creeping in at the edges of his consciousness. He could not unsee the disappointment - verging on hurt - that had marked her expression when he had refused to sing. But it was ridiculous: he could not hold a tune. He had not sung in front of anyone in years; even in church he merely mouthed the words of each hymn.

Tray in hand, he was walking back to the aft hatch when an idea occurred to him that turned the whole situation on its head. He had believed that the lady hadn’t understood his explanation for not singing - and she hadn’t, but maybe not in the way he’d suspected. Perhaps the concept of being good at singing was what she actually couldn’t comprehend. Moved by the sailor’s song she had opened her mouth without hesitation, letting the pure sound of her voice pour out as naturally as breath. Perhaps for the Inuit it was just as natural: not a performance, not something done for another’s approval, but a simple and integral part of living, of existing. She could not comprehend of false notes anymore than he could understand the other men’s fear of her.

She was braiding the strands of rope when he returned to the slops storage, and she did not look up when he entered: a certain sign that she was displeased with him. Goodsir’s stomach churned reproachfully. Why shouldn’t she be? She had shared with him a natural expression of her joy in living; he had denied to reciprocate. What had that told her about him, Goodsir wondered? That he was empty of such joy? Or that he deemed her unworthy of seeing it?

Setting the tray down in front of her, he folded his legs beneath him and sat. “Inngiqtug. Yes. Ii.” She looked up at this and Goodsir cleared his throat. His mouth seemed suddenly parched, but he did not hesitate again.

_‘Tis not the frost, that freezes fell,_  
_Nor blowing snows inclemency,_  
_‘Tis not such cold that makes me cry,_  
_But my love’s heart grown cold to me._

As the rosy hue of pleasure rose again in the lady’s cheeks, Goodsir’s rusty tenor grew stronger, more sure.

_O waly, waly, but love be bonny,_  
_A little time while it is new,_  
_But when ‘tis auld, it waxeth cold,_  
_And fades away like the morning dew._

To his consternation, Goodsir found he couldn’t remember the rest of the stanzas. But it had been enough. She was smiling again and the beauty and warmth of it drove every lingering wisp of embarrassment from his mind. He returned her smile and chided himself for his initial hesitation. What was to fear? He had only been singing to an audience of one, after all.

The sound of two heavy palms striking together made Goodsir jerk around. Mr. Honey had woken from his nap and was standing in the doorway.

“Thought I was dreaming it, I did,” the man said. “Me gran used to sing that and it carried me back home sure. I thank you, Mr. Goodsir. It was wonderfully done. I’ll tell the lads they need to ask you to sing for us all one evening.”

The carpenter pulled at his forelock respectfully and departed up the hatch. A weak, belated “thank you” left Goodsir’s mouth, barely more than a whisper. His face was flaming when he turned back towards the lady, but she was studying her food and - to her great credit - had the decency to pretend she hadn’t noticed his discomfort.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Silna hears the sailor singing is “[Limbo](https://mainlynorfolk.info/tony.rose/songs/limbo.html).” It's one of my favorite folk songs and is beautifully performed by [Eliza Carthy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUMrizFTNbg).
> 
> The song Harry sings is the traditional Scottish ballad, “The Water is Wide.”
> 
> aagga piujuq = no good  
> alianait = wonderful  
> ii = yes


End file.
